When Felix and his friend passed into the drinking saloon, Bob followed them as far as the door; then he turned back, and sought the disguise of a bootblack.
A young knight of the brush stood near by, with his blacking box slung over his shoulder. Bob arranged with him for the use of it for a few moments, promising to pay over to him all the proceeds he made thereby. He also exchanged his own hat for the cap the boy had on, and, with this head gear pulled down over the left side of his face, the appearance of Bob Hunter was much changed. His accustomed step, quick, firm, and expressive, was changed to that of the nerveless, aimless boy—a sort of shuffle.
Thus disguised, he approached Felix Mortimer and his companion, who were sitting at a table with a partially filled schooner of beer before each of them.
“Shine? shine, boss?” said Bob, in a strange voice.
No response was made by the convivial youths.
“Two for five!” continued Bob, persistently. “Two reg’lar patent leathers for only five cents!”
Peter looked at his boots. They were muddy. Then he argued with himself that Felix had paid for the beer, so it seemed to him that he could not even up the score in any less expensive way than by paying for the shines.
“Do you mean you will give us both a shine for five cents?” said Peter.
“Well, see that they are good ones, now, or I’ll not pay you a cent.”